


Stakes

by BadassIndustries



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Canon Era, Gambling, M/M, Mentions of being turned against your will, No onscreen blooddrinking, Vaguely inspired by the Fallen London aesthetic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 07:03:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17483426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadassIndustries/pseuds/BadassIndustries
Summary: To see Claquesous is to accept your coming demise. Or so it is for people who cannot claim him as a friend. Not that Montparnasse would do so, save for the moments when the same blood adorns their mouths and his heart briefly races in bloody elation. When they’re not hazy and blood-drunk, Claquesous is an ally, nothing more.Written for Montsous week 2019





	Stakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sunfreckle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/gifts).



> Written for my sweet sister, who adores this pair so much and asked me to write her some canon era vampires. Here you go sis, love you!

A life of idleness and greed has always suited Montparnasse best. Dying didn’t change that. It has just made it easier to get what he wants. When he still lived, he had to rely on benefactors, rich folks who liked the stealth of his fingers or the shape of his face. Now, those people are the ones at his mercy. Something about his pale skin and piercing eyes leave them entranced, powerless. Montparnasse always leaves those meetings with the same rosy blush on his cheeks he had in life.

Life is so much cheaper now he doesn’t have to pay for food anymore. He can even afford to change his hats with the fashions now. With all those benefits, Montparnasse doesn’t miss the garish light of day. He has always looked better in candlelight. Above all, Montparnasse mourns for his mirror. The price of his reflection for power and beauty unending is one he would pay anytime, but the loss of the sight of his own face is a hard one. Fortunately, Montparnasse has found a desperate artist, Romantic and starving in a little garret, who will paint his beauty for the price of some oblivion.  Montparnasse can supply the sweetest oblivion, all it takes is a little pain.

Montparnasse did not get a choice, nor an explanation for why he was chosen to become what he is now. Perhaps it was a reward, or a punishment, for his daring. He should have known better, of course. Elegant ladies did not walk the dark streets alone. Especially not ones clad in the finest silk. But Montparnasse’s hunger silenced his doubts and subdued his caution. He followed her into the dark and was repaid in pain. But that was the last time he was the prey. The incredible pain was quickly drowned out by an overpowering hunger. He never saw the lady again, left to discover his new existence alone.

But that was all in the past. Now, Montparnasse is the one luring the greedy and foolhardy into dark corners. Although he does not tend to leave his victims with the ability to get up again. He doesn’t like competition. He has found some creatures like him in the Parisian night however. Men and women who hail from catacombs or palaces, who deal in secrets and trade blood-red smiles. But Montparnasse wouldn’t trust them, even if his existence depended upon it. Trust flows as free from him as his blood flows through his frozen heart.

He only has a few allies, persons who rely on him just as much as he is dependent upon them. The one he deals with most often is Claquesous. That is not his real name of course. Claquesous deals in lies and illusions, he is said to steal people’s voices. His face is always hidden and his mouth is always smiling. To see him is to accept your coming demise. Or so it is for people who cannot claim him as a friend. Not that Montparnasse would do so, save for the moments when the same blood adorns their mouths and his heart briefly races in bloody elation. When they’re not hazy and blood-drunk, Claquesous is an ally, nothing more. Albeit one Montparnasse gets along with better than a lot of his shadowy associates. If he had to be caught by daybreak with one of them, he’d pick Claquesous over the others. Of course, he’d prefer not to be in this situation at all. But here they were, stuck in a cellar with dawn calling them to their coffins.

Montparnasse feels the lure of sleep dragging him down. It’s only barely noticeable, but Claquesous has started to move more slowly too. But neither wants to be the first to admit they would allow themselves weakness in the other’s company. Instead they’re gambling, the cards the only thing keeping them awake. Montparnasse lays out his hand on the upturned crate that serves as their table. Claquesous grins broadly, the light of their single candle glinting off his sharp teeth. He looks feral like this, longhaired and wild. Or he would be, if he wasn’t so damnably restrained.

Claquesous is old and can resist the lure of blood more than most. Or maybe that is just another one of his lies. But it does seem true. He is awfully controlled. He gives the impression of having just emerged from the shadows, of having lurked there for all eternity. Of course, all the best lies have that little glimmer of truth in it. Claquesous is extraordinarily good in cloaking falsehoods in base truth. His smile is sharp as he laid down his cards. Three rounds ago Montparnasse had won the mask off his face, so the triumph in his face is clearly visible now. Montparnasse groans. Money is of very little consequence to them, so they bet on far more precious things. Favours and secrets, honest truths and favourite mementoes. Claquesous had just won Montparnasse’s cooperation at his next venture. He loves to make Montparnasse play the bait. Begrudgingly, Montparnasse deals another hand. There’s several hours left till sundown. He is used to being indolent. Slothful even. But he’ll certainly not be the first one to suggest sleep.

Luck is on his side with the next round, this hand will most certainly win him the round. Time to get the upper hand. Slowly, he unknots his silk cravat. He feels Claquesous’ eyes on his throat. He drops the silk on the table and smiles a challenge at Claquesous. Claquesous answers it in a voice most certainly not his own.

“For this, I’ll call with the favour Brujon owes me.”

Montparnasse accepts, not bothering to look at Claquesous’ reaction. His face will never give away his true thoughts. It’s his actions that count, not his reactions. Looking at his face to divine what he’s thinking is a worthless endeavour. Even if it is a striking face, well sculpted and intriguing to look at. Of all Claquesous’ crimes, Montparnasse thinks hiding his face behind a mask each day is one of the worst. Beauty should be admired, not hidden behind bloodstained velvet. A new card is drawn and Montparnasse’s hand only grows stronger. He shifts on the barrel that serves as his seat. What to bet to make Claquesous raise the stakes?

“I’ll raise you a secret about my past,” Montparnasse says, letting his tongue glide past his teeth a bit theatrically. Claquesous replies in kind. He must think Montparnasse is bluffing. Bluffing shamelessly and trying for a distraction. Claquesous can be at times a satisfying admirer of Montparnasse’s beauty.  But a glint of fangs and a bared throat should hardly be enough to distract him. The last card is drawn and Montparnasse allows himself a private victory. With a flourish, he places Claquesous’ mask on the table.

“I think for this you owe me something good,” he smiles. Montparnasse has had to risk a year of taking Claquesous’ place in Thenardier’s little gang to win it and he will not give it up lightly. He thinks he can see the glint of annoyance in Claquesous’ eyes. Or is it eagerness?

This time, Claquesous’ voice comes from behind him.

“For my mask, I’ll offer you a truth I’ve long kept hidden.” His mouth remains shut and smiling.

“Not quite good enough, I’m afraid. Be more specific.” Montparnasse says it smugly.

Truths, no matter how long they’ve been hidden, can still be frightfully boring. Claquesous guards his truths so well, that any little thing could be worth the price of his mask. But Montparnasse wants something exciting, something new. A truth that’ll give him an edge, or a new insight, or at least keep him awake.

“Very well,” says Montparnasse’s own voice from right behind him. “How about a truth about you I’ve never told you?”

Now that might be interesting. Claquesous never speak plainly, he infers and insinuates and makes Montparnasse decipher anything he says. His honest thoughts about Montparnasse could certainly be worth the mask. And Montparnasse doesn’t think Claquesous would try to get away with an insult. They will have to work together for a very long time, after all. So it must be something new, or something complimentary. It might be the reason why Montparnasse sometimes feels eyes on him from the shadows. It is certainly worth the gamble.

Barely containing his sense of triumph, he lays out his hand. It is all but unbeatable. Claquesous doesn’t even bother to show his own. Montparnasse smiles in victory. It’s been a while since he enjoyed an honest victory more than a stolen one.

“I believe you owe me a favour, a secret and a truth,” Montparnasse says languidly, leaning closer to Claquesous to enjoy the small flickering of emotion he can see in Claquesous’ eyes. Claquesous looks away into the darkness. Even their eyes can barely make out the barrels of apples and dusty bottles outside the ring of light thrown by their candle.

Face turned away, Claquesous says: “When alive, I was a musical performer.”

Montparnasse is glad Claquesous cannot see the shock on his face. Not at Claquesous’ musical past, that can hardly be a surprise. Claquesous owns many voices, but the one he uses in private is pleasant and mellifluous. Montparnasse has always suspected he could sing. But that he would reveal such a large secret of his past, of his living days even. That is a surprise. It’s a show of trust Montparnasse had not expected at all. But Montparnasse is nothing if not greedy and Claquesous owes him an even larger secret.

“You also owe me a truth,” he says, throwing his head back a little to make the candlelight catch on his cheekbones. “And with your reticence you better make it a good one. Make it nice and complimentary. Tell me you think I’m pretty.”

He’s trying to goad Claquesous into action, it’s true. But he really does want to know what truth about Montparnasse Claquesous has been keeping secret. And even more he wants to see what it takes for Claquesous to lose control.

“I’ve always wondered what your blood tastes like.” This time it’s Claquesous own voice, spilling from his own lips. He says it emotionless, face as frozen as his mask. Montparnasse blinks, considers it. It’s true that it is an awfully long time till dusk. He smiles, slow and self-satisfied, and wets his lips.

“Why don’t we find out?”


End file.
